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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256009">Ghost Towns</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/direnightshade/pseuds/direnightshade'>direnightshade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dead Don't Die (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Eventual Smut, F/M, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:06:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/direnightshade/pseuds/direnightshade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse has come to Centerville, re-animating the dead and leaving behind a trail of devastation in its wake. Having done all he can, but to no avail, Officer Ronnie Peterson remains the last one left alive. Now leaving behind the town and people he knew best, Ronnie sets off in a search for other survivors. If he's lucky, maybe he can reverse the damage done by the polar fracking.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Officer Ronnie Peterson/Reader, Ronnie Peterson/Reader, Ronnie/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Centerville</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Metal cuts through rotted flesh and weathered bone with ease, sending a head tumbling to the ground, teeth still gnashing hungrily while the re-animated body collapses to the ground lifeless once again. Ronnie’s lost count of how many this makes, blood splattered across his police uniform and dotting his forearm, cheek, and forehead. By some semblance of a miracle, he’d managed to make it out of the cemetery alive. He’d only wished Cliff had been so lucky.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things were supposed to end badly, that much he knew. He just never imagined that they’d go so off script, that he’d lose everyone and be the only one to walk out of Centerville alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a race to get back to the patrol car, and though the corpses don’t run, don’t do more than lumber about after him, Ronnie knows that he can’t spare so much as a second to slow down. If there’s one thing his training at the academy’s taught him, it’s that letting your guard down is when most officers get themselves killed, and he cannot afford that—not then, and certainly not now. His feet skid to a halt along the grass, and keeping the machete in one hand, he dips the other into his front pocket to search for the keys.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’s coming up empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Panic works its way deep into his chest, weaving around his ribs and squeezing his heart. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing as he does his damndest to bite back the bile that threatens to rise up in this very moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Cliff, he realizes. He’s got the keys.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ronnie’s eyes snap over to where Cliff lies on the ground, and the sickening feeling only seems to get worse. It’s bad enough that he’s had to witness all of this, had to have this shitty plotline be a narrative in his own story, but now he’s got to go and swipe the keys from his former boss and leave him behind just to save his own skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inhaling a deep breath, steeling himself for what he’s about to do, he rounds the front of the patrol car and heads back into the throngs of the undead. It’s a fury of metal and muscle as Ronnie cuts his way through the crowd, ignoring any and all vocalization from the undead that may serve to trick that brain of his. Could he be tricked, he wonders, now approaching Cliff who’s already beginning to show signs of re-animation. That’s how he’d ended up being the only one alive, after all. Everyone else had fallen for the various calls of loved ones roaming the cemetery. Ronnie sighs and clicks the tip of his tongue off the roof of his mouth as he looks down with such pity at the man he’d once worked for. He supposes, he thinks, that it’s good he’s got no one tethering him here in Centerville.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wasting no more time, he grabs the keys from Cliff’s belt and darts off again, ducking and weaving and cutting his way back out of the crowd until he’s made his way back to the car. A shaky hand slips the key into the door’s lock and unlocks it before getting inside, shutting and locking the door once he does so, taking a moment to just </span>
  <b>
    <em>breathe</em>
  </b>
  <span>, his hand releasing the machete to drop it down onto the floorboard in front of the passenger seat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A palm slaps to the window, the hand slowly, slowly, slowly dragging down before another joins it, and another, and another, until Ronnie’s taking the hint. He needs to move, and he needs to do so </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sticks the key into the ignition and revs up the engine, his foot pressing down onto the gas with as much force as he can muster, sending the car lurching forward with a mass of wet grass and mud flinging out behind the back wheels. The back of the car fishtails, and it takes Ronnie a moment, but soon enough he’s regaining control of the vehicle and speeding off down the road. His gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror, watching for a brief moment as he leaves behind what feels like the entirety of Centerville’s population behind. His heart’s pounding in his chest now, and he thinks maybe it has been ever since this all started, but he hasn’t had a chance to take a moment and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now he’s feeling </span>
  <b>everything</b>
  <span>; everything and nothing at all. It’s an odd sensation, he thinks, while he drives down the deserted streets of Centerville, heading closer and closer to the outskirts of the rural town. He can feel the steady, rapid thrum of his blood pumping in his veins, his heart pounding in his chest, and his muscles tense with constant awareness. And yet, as he drives away from the town, searching for some place new, he feels nothing even as he looks back into the rearview mirror. His old life is gone, and with it, the town he’d once claimed to love. But had he really? He certainly doesn’t think so, not if leaving it like this, without so much of a shred of emotion to be found is any indication.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ronnie returns his attention to the road, only now reaching for his seatbelt and drawing it across his body until he hears the familiar metallic click to alert him to the fact that it’s been secured. Click it or ticket, he thinks to himself, the absurd thought causing him to snort in amusement. The snort becomes a chuckle, and the chuckle a laugh, until he’s an utter hysterical mess. It feels good to laugh, feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. With everything that’s been going on, he can’t remember the last time he’s even cracked a smile. He rolls the car to another stop, figuring now, here in the darkened street on the outskirts of town, flanked by nothing but trees, that he can finally and safely have a moment to collect himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reaches up with a hand, pulling his glasses away from his face just as his other hand lifts to wipe away the laughter-induced tears that have since stained his cheeks. This is an absolute nightmare, this situation he’s been dropped into, and he hates every single thing about it. He doesn’t like this, the horror and the mayhem. He’s seen enough of this kind of shit working the job that has seemingly gone to hell right along with the rest of Centerville. Of course the universe would throw him right into this scenario. What a cruel twist of fate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Settling the glasses back onto his face, the carries onward, driving away from this town and heading towards the next. It’s goodbye Centerville, and hello Brownsville.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Brownsville</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It has been a long, long time since Brownsville has last seen any sort of boom in business. For as long as Ronnie can remember, this town has been nothing more than a ghost town; the businesses on Market Street have always had their windows boarded up and their ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, We’re Closed</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ signs in place. His father had told him once that Brownsville used to be prosperous, seeing a steady incline in population and business thanks to the success of both the coal mining and the steelworks in the area. Now, like everything and everyone else, this town is dead. But now, as he drives slowly through the main drag, it somehow manages to feel even more so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike the main drag that cuts through Centerville, Market Street is eerily empty and not at all crawling with the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The police cruiser coasts into a right-hand turn onto Fourth Street and slows considerably as Ronnie’s gaze swings from one side of the street to the other, searching for any signs of life. His foot shifts from the gas pedal to the brake, pressing down to slow the trajectory of the car even more so when a bush to his right jostles with movement. He lifts a hand, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose whilst he squints in an attempt to gain a better look at what may be causing the movement. The leaves of the bush give another shake, and when the car pulls up alongside, a cat makes its sudden escape with a hiss of irritation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Humming with his own agitation, Ronnie moves his foot back to the gas and accelerates forward in order to turn onto another secondary street, this one lined with old homes. It is a narrow drive, the cruiser barely managing to squeeze through the cars that remain parked on either side of the car-width lane, but just as with the other streets, Ronnie finds that this road is also devoid of both the living and the dead—that is, until…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A figure stumbles through the front door of a nearby farmhouse and out onto the wrap-around porch, frantic gaze seeking a fast exit only to land on the vehicle that continues to drive slowly in the direction of the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! Hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop! Please!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ronnie’s foot slams down onto the brake, halting the movement of the car just as your hands slam down onto the hood of the vehicle. Even through the windows which are rolled up, it’s impossible for Ronnie to miss the sounds of the undead that echo from inside of the home. When you round the car to make your approach to the passenger side door, the mobile corpses come spilling out from the front door, some falling onto the porch clumsily whilst others carry on with their ambling in the direction of the vehicle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tug of the locked door handle followed by the rapid succession of slaps of your palm against the glass pulls Ronnie’s attention away from the small group of the dead. He taps the appropriate button on the door beside him causing the locks to slide down and allowing you to pull open the door and get in beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go! Go! Go! Go</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you urge with quick waves of your hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, there is no hesitation on Ronnie’s part. His foot presses down onto the gas, sending the car lurching forward towards the bodies that have spilled out onto the grass and into the street. He clips one, taking out his driver side mirror in the process, whilst only managing to hit one other, the impact cracking the windshield and sending the body rolling up and over the car only to be deposited back down onto the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know where Bowman’s is,” you ask breathlessly, twisting in your seat to look back at the dead who are slowly disappearing into the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yeah, yeah, I know where Bowman’s is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” you reply, turning back around to face the windshield. “Take me there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ronnie reaches up to push the frames of his glasses up the bridge of his nose, brows creasing in momentary concern and confusion. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. With those things back there,” he says, thumbing over his shoulder, “following us and all. Staying there, well, it could end badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think anywhere else is better? This town is crawling with them; just because you aren’t seeing them now doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Connellsville, Uniontown, they’re no better. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole world</span>
  </em>
  <span> is overrun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ronnie’s jaw works momentarily whilst his lips press together into a thin line. Resigning to the fact that you are indeed correct, he presses his foot down onto the pedal a little harder, sending the car down the street just a little faster until finally, the red brick building comes into view. He’d know this place anywhere; he’s been here time and time again growing up with friends for their ghost hunts and again with school during field trips for the historical accounts of the old home turned historical and paranormal attraction now turned defunct entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gravel crunches beneath the tires of his car when he turns the vehicle onto the makeshift driveway and his head swivels with a snap when you fling open your door and hop out before the vehicle even has a chance to roll to a complete stop. Huffing out a disgruntled grunt, Ronnie throws the car into park and pulls the keys from the ignition before following you out, machete in hand, up to the front door of the old historical home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The groans of the dead that still amble well off in the distance can no longer be heard, and for a brief moment, Ronnie can’t help but wonder if perhaps they’ve long since lost their interest now that the two of you are well out of sight. The creak of the screen door’s hinges swiftly brings his focus back to the task at hand, and with a twist of your wrist, you turn the handle and push inward to open the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon,” you mutter, urging Ronnie to follow close behind with a nod of your head just as you step in over the threshold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dutifully, he does as instructed, and follows you into the abandoned home, securing both the screen and front doors behind him. Even with the daylight outside, it’s impossibly dark out here, he notices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The shutters,” you say aloud, having noticed the squinting of his eyes as if to get a better view of the interior of the home. “I closed them off days ago. Keeps them from knowing I’m in here. Only downside is it keeps the sunlight out too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ronnie hums in acknowledgement of your words, reaching for the utility belt that still sits around his waist to retrieve the small flashlight that is all but engulfed by his hand when he pulls it free, his thumb clicking it on and sending the immediate area ablaze in a wash of bright fluorescent light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re staying here all by yourself,” Ronnie asks as he follows you through the foyer to the stairs leading to the second floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am. Didn’t have anyone before,” you pause, inhaling a breath whilst you ascend the stairs, “well,before whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is. Didn’t really see the point in joining up with anyone after the fact. Not when it’s still so dangerous out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a moment of silence that follows as Ronnie contemplates your statement. It was true for him too, he knows, not having anyone before. He thought that maybe Mindy could have been someone to him, but any notion of that potential bloom of romance withered into the ether the moment she stepped out of the patrol car at the cemetery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he was just as alone as he had been before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is, until now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stairs creak beneath his weight and his eyes swivel back and forth past the light of his flashlight that illuminates the stairs into the darkness of the hallway once the two of you reach the landing. There is a sense of unease that fills him, being here in a large home like this with only one other soul. There are zombies just down the street, and who knows how many more in the homes that are tucked away quietly nearby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Are you truly safe here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grip tightens inadvertently onto the handle of the machete that he carries in his right hand, knuckles whitening in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” you say, stopping in front of one of the many closed doors that line the hallway. “You can stay here. It isn’t much.” The door squeaks when you push it open, and unlike the hallway and the entirety of the first floor, this room is awash in light, making Ronnie lift the hand holding the flashlight to shield his eyes momentarily whilst they adjust. “But it’s got a bed and some privacy. I’m just across the hall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lowering his hand, Ronnie steps into the room, his hold on the machete easing slightly. He supposes, he thinks to himself with a nod of his head, that this will do for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, by the way…” Ronnie turns to face you, simultaneously clicking off the flashlight as he awaits the remainder of your statement. He watches as you inhale a breath and smile--the first kind face he’s seen since the fall of Centerville. You introduce yourself, giving him only your first name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it is he who smiles, albeit a small one. “Ronnie,” he replies. “Ronnie Peterson.”</span>
</p>
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